The Age of Dreaming (3 page)

The first night’s performance had sold out quickly, partly because my challenge to Okamoto had become public knowledge, and partly because the family of John Yamada, who played Kubota’s best friend, had ensured that all their friends were in attendance. I remember gazing out of the wings at the crowded theater and wondering if I had been mad; wondering how I had ever thought that someone like me could come from nowhere and put on a play. I was anxious now—we all were—and I remained nervous through the raising of the curtain, through a moment of feeling naked when I first walked out on stage, and through the delivery of my first several lines, which suddenly seemed trite and inadequate. But soon enough, as I concentrated on how Kubota was feeling during his first chance meeting with Emiko, I forgot the people in the audience altogether. The only person in the world was the admiral’s daughter, played well by Midori Hata—and as I stopped worrying about the reactions of the audience, I could feel them engaging in the story. Near the end of the first act, when Kubota confesses his love, he impulsively grasps Emiko’s hand—and as we touched, I heard a gasp rise from the audience. We had captured them completely. The rest of the play went smoothly, with only a few hardly noticeable errors, and after it ended to thunderous applause, the audience brought us back four times for curtain calls. It was a triumph of the highest order. And I remember looking out at the standing, cheering audience; at the beaming faces of my fellow players, and thinking,
It was
I
who made this happen
. And I realized at that moment that the course of my life had suddenly, irrevocably changed.

The Indifferent Sea
earned a rave review in the Japanese newspaper, the
Rafu Shimpo
. The second night sold out, and also the third, and so Okamoto added another week to its original one-week run. After the final performance, the businessmen who backed the theater threw a party at Haraoka, an exclusive restaurant to which I never before could have gained legitimate entry. After many toasts, and countless emptied bottles of sake, beer, and champagne, one of the businessmen put his arm around me and said, “Thank you for saving our theater, Nakabayashi. What do you have in mind for the next production?”

I was due to sail for Tokyo—once again—two weeks later, and I didn’t relish the idea of sending my family a telegram announcing another delay. But it would be disingenuous to say I wasn’t prepared for such a question, and as the people around me all fell into a hush, I pulled myself up straight. “A mystery,” I said, “entitled
Double Bind
. I saw it in a theater in Tokyo just before I sailed to America, and it was a fine piece of work, taut and resonant.” The businessmen all nodded solemnly, and then looked at Okamoto, who was as happy and red-faced as Buddha. “Well, prepare the theater, Okamoto!” the first businessman said. “The boy’s got a play to put on!”

The second play,
Double Bind
, was as successful as the first. It was followed by
The Swallows
, and then
Futility
and
The Shadow of the Mountain
, all plays that had been produced very recently by the new theater companies springing up in Tokyo. By the time the third play opened, the theater had become the talk of Boyle Heights and Little Tokyo—as had the young new actor/director behind it. I had been staying with the Yamada family through the summer months, but once I began to collect some of the earnings from the plays—and once it became clear that I would not be returning to Japan in the immediate future—I took two rooms in a house off Second Street. Now, suddenly, I was being recognized on the streets of Little Tokyo. People bought me drinks when I ate in local restaurants; launders competed for my business; middle-aged women offered me their daughters’ hands in marriage. I cannot claim that I didn’t enjoy this attention, but my real devotion—as it was from the moment I first demanded to speak to Okamoto—was to the quality of the plays we presented.

It was in the interest of expanding my artistic range that I decided to produce, as my next play,
Twelfth Night
. This was not the first work the theater had presented in English—one of the plays that Okamoto had produced before my arrival was an English translation of a German play—but it was the first that had been penned by an English-speaking writer. Few of the theatergoers were familiar with Shakespeare, and those who were had seen the master’s plays in Japanese translation, where much of his poetry and verbal trickery were lost. I did not know how well a Shakespeare play would be received in its original English, but I was ready to make the theatergoers stretch their minds—and I had built up enough credibility and good will by that point that the audience would trust me. Moreover, the backers of the theater, who were concerned with how the growing Japanese population was perceived by the Americans, were pleased by this production of a Western classic. It turned out that we gambled correctly. Although the actors were more nervous than usual—especially those who felt uncertain that they could convey the subtleties of English—the play was a tremendous success.

Because the production of
Twelfth Night
by a Japanese theater was considered somewhat of a novelty, this play garnered a level of interest that was completely unprecedented for the Little Tokyo Theater. For the first time, there were Caucasian faces in the audience. Then, a week into the run, a favorable review appeared in the
Los Angeles Times
, which had previously ignored the existence of Japanese in California except to express concern about their growing numbers. It was clear that our play was a hit. While Okamoto and some of the players were unnerved by this increased exposure, I enjoyed the fact that our work was receiving accolades from a broader audience. Then one night after a performance, an usher came into the dressing room and ceremoniously cleared his throat.

“Mr. Nakabayashi,” he said breathlessly, “someone is here to see you.”

I finished changing into my street clothes and stepped out into the hallway where I had first encountered Okamoto eight months earlier. There I saw a beautiful young Japanese woman and a slightly older Caucasian man. They both stepped forward to greet me.

I recognized the lady at once. She was Hanako Minatoya, the accomplished leader of the Kyoto Players, the traveling theater company. She had recently made the jump into the new medium of film, a move that had already met with considerable success. It was of no small significance that she had come to see me that evening. I was honored and terribly nervous.

“Mr. Nakabayashi,” she said in English, “I am Hanako Minatoya.”

I bowed deeply and forced myself to meet her lovely brown eyes. “I know precisely who you are, Miss Minatoya, and I am very humbled that you attended my play.”

“It was a pleasure,” she replied. “I am a true admirer. I have seen each one of your plays, and they continue to improve in quality. What you have done here is simply remarkable.” Here, she smiled enough to show her perfect white teeth, and I thought—although I probably imagined it—that a fiush came into her cheeks. She was exquisite— small in frame, graceful in movement, but with an understated assurance. She had porcelain skin and a charming dimple when she smiled, as she did now.

“In that case, I am five times fiattered,” I said. “I am an admirer of your work as well. In fact, I saw you perform two years ago in Madison, Wisconsin.”

She smiled again, and then turned to the man beside her, whose presence I had completely forgotten. “Mr. Nakabayashi, this is Mr. Moran of the Moran Film Company. I brought him against his will to see your performance tonight, and now I’ve had to hold him back from rushing the stage to talk to you.”

“Good to meet you,” said Mr. Moran, holding out his hand. I offered mine in return, and he shook it heartily.

While I had not recognized William Moran by face, I certainly knew who he was. He’d directed half a dozen successful films in the year since he’d established his company, including three that featured Miss Minatoya. He was admired, and also somewhat controversial, because he actually used Chinese and Japanese actors to play Oriental parts, instead of following the usual practice of making Caucasian actors up to look like Orientals. Moran was medium-sized and stocky, with baggy clothes that befitted a salesman more than an artist. Although he was only in his early thirties when I met him, he had the focus and assurance of an older man. After I thanked him for coming to see my performance, he moved closer and quickly cut to the chase.

“Look here, Nakabayashi,” he said. “I’d like to sign you to a picture. I’ve got a film in production that takes place in Japan during an epic battle, and I need a male lead. I was scratching my head to figure out who was strong enough to play opposite Hanako—the actors I already have are all crap—and she insisted that I come and see your play. She was right. You’re tremendous—you have the kind of natural talent and intensity I’m looking for. Forgive me for being presumptuous here, but you need to move on from this neighborhood theater. And we need to do something about your name right away. It’s really just too damned long.”

I didn’t know what to say to this. Eight months before, when I’d stormed into that very hall, I had no inkling that I would ever be involved in a play, let alone offered a part in a picture. Even after I was established, and my plays consistently successful, I’d had no idea that Hanako Minatoya was aware of my work, or that she’d recommend me to her very own company. In those eight months, I had received a lifetime’s worth of good fortune. I was under the admiring gaze of a beautiful and accomplished woman, and being offered a role by one of the rising young powers in the brand-new industry of moving pictures. I already knew what to do about my name. I would simply use the shortened version of my given name, and assume the surname of my beloved high school literature teacher, Nakayama-sensei.

“I am left speechless by your offer, Mr. Moran,” I said, “and I would be honored to appear in your picture.” And with those words, I became Jun Nakayama, an actor in American films.

CHAPTER THREE

I
see that I’ve become somewhat carried away by these thoughts of my early career. But these digressions are surely related to the nature of this morning’s appointment. What I had intended to discuss before I grew so distracted was my meeting with the writer, Nick Bellinger.

About twenty minutes after I saw the family with the little girls—and thus ten minutes past our scheduled meeting time—a young man came walking briskly from Santa Monica Boulevard and headed directly for the bench where I was sitting. He was thin, of medium height, with unruly brown hair, wearing blue jeans and a brown leather jacket. He had on horn-rimmed glasses that intensified the green of his eyes, and he carried a worn leather briefcase. He broke into a large grin when he saw me, and as he neared the bench, he asked the same thing he had on the phone: “Excuse me, sir, but are you Jun Nakayama?”

“Indeed I am,” I said. “And you must be Nick Bellinger.”

I stood up to shake his hand. He was perhaps four inches taller than I, and he grinned like a schoolboy, although I guessed his age to be around thirty. We talked of insignificant things as we walked back to Santa Monica Boulevard: the weather, the restoration of the park. Bellinger was gracious and eager, holding my elbow when I misjudged a curb, and he seemed to lack the anger and restlessness that was starting to infect so many other young people of his generation. At the restaurant he chose—a newer place with too-bright furnishings—we took a booth by the window and ordered refreshments: coffee for Bellinger and tea for myself. After the waitress left, he looked at me, still grinning.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Nakayama,” he said. “I still can’t quite believe that I’m talking to you. I’ve seen four of your films—
Sleight of Hand
and
The Noble Servant
are my favorites—and even though I also love John Gilbert and Lionel Barrymore and some of your other contemporaries, to me, you were the best of the lot.”

Something about the young man’s manner put me instantly at ease. “Why, thank you, Mr. Bellinger. But really, my work was not terribly significant. Just a few films before the advent of sound.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, Mr. Nakayama! It was
extremely
significant. You brought an understatement and intensity to the screen that were totally new at a time when histrionics and overacting were the norm. Your work influenced everyone from Humphrey Bogart to Montgomery Clift.”

Indeed, I had heard this claim on many occasions, and I’d also heard that Mr. Clift, in private conversation, had credited me for shaping his view of acting.

“I am afraid,” I said, “that not everyone shares your view.”

“Well then that is their loss, sir. And their ignorance does not diminish for a moment the importance of your accomplishments.”

I decided that Bellinger, while sloppily dressed and badly coifed, was actually a young man of substance and character. As the waitress reappeared with our drinks, I asked, “How did you happen to see so many of my films? It is not a simple matter to locate them.”

“My father is a silent film nut. He has a pretty big collection. And my mother
loved
you. She always jokes that it’s lucky for my dad that she never met you in person, because she’d never have let you out of her sight.” He took a drink from his coffee. “Anyway, thank you for meeting me. Everyone at the paper knows I’m a silent film fan. So when we heard that someone was opening a theater dedicated to silents, it was pretty obvious who was going to do the story. My idea was that we try to find some of the actors and actresses from that time who might still be around. I’d write about what they did after their acting careers, and about how they’re doing now.”

“Who’s opening this theater?” I asked.

“Just a pair of film buffs. Ken and Geri O’Brien, a couple from Cleveland. They’re very enthusiastic, but they know nothing about running a business. So this story has taken on a lot of significance. If I do a good job, it could help publicize the theater and get it off on the right foot. And the really fun part is that it’s given me an excuse to dig up people like you.”

We talked for perhaps an hour more about the current crop of actors. Sidney Poitier and Gregory Peck were his favorites, which made me think more of him, and he also liked Sean Connery, which reminded me of his youth. Then we circled round to the early days of Hollywood and the formation of the various small film companies. We spoke only briefly of my career, and I later realized how intelligent this was; Bellinger was trying to make me comfortable before asking any real questions, and his strategy was successful. I found him a pleasant companion, and after our talk had come to a natural stopping point, he suggested we meet again. I agreed, for I was eager to resume our conversation. Then he handed me a folder of his articles, all clips from the
L.A. Observer
and the
Los Angeles Times
, as well as a piece from
Life
. The fact that he had pieces in such reputable publications was enough to convince me that he was legitimate. “Very well,” I said. “I look forward to continuing our discussion.”

Bellinger beamed, and then suggested that we meet two days later at a coffee shop in Hollywood, where the tall booths afforded more privacy. He pulled a different folder out of his bag, removed an old photograph, and pushed it shyly across the table. It was a publicity still of me from my eleventh film,
The Archivist
. The camera captured me gazing intently at a spot just beyond it. I wore a crisp white shirt and dark tie, my hair was slicked back, and I looked like nothing in the world could defeat me. I had not seen this image, or any image of myself from the movies, for more than forty years. This photo had appeared on the cover of
Motion Picture Classic
. In it, I was twenty-two years old.

“I feel silly asking this, Mr. Nakayama,” Bellinger said, “but would you mind signing this picture? It’s very special to me, and it would thrill me to have your autograph.”

I said that I would be glad to, and he handed me a pen. I wrote,
For Nick Bellinger, All the best in your future endeavors, Jun Nakayama,
and then slid the picture back across the table. He picked it up carefully and read the inscription.

“Thank you, Mr. Nakayama. I’m going to go out right now and buy a frame.” Then he looked at the picture, smiled, looked back up at me, and said, “You certainly were a handsome devil, weren’t you?”

Nick Bellinger was not the only one who used such words to describe me. Indeed, “handsome devil” was a term I heard quite often early in my career. There was something about the way he said it, however, something sly and mischievous, that made me recall the first time someone referred to me in this manner. It was at one of the big all-night parties in Whitley Heights, and the speaker was none other than the Mistress of Mayhem, the actress Elizabeth Banks.

The party took place in July, about a month after the release of my second picture,
Jamestown Junction.
Since I had signed with Moran’s company, I had been attending such functions on a weekly basis. At first I did not enjoy them. The attendees, who were largely the same from party to party, all seemed to know one another, and they drank and danced and carried on with a vigor that initially shocked me. But gradually I found that the revelers, when sober, were in fact charming and intelligent people, serious artists devoted to their craft. Many of the partygoers were actors and actresses who are now long forgotten, once illustrious names like Mae Marsh, Louise Glaum, and Earle Williams. Some better-known stars were also regularly in attendance, people like Wallace Reid and Blanche Sweet. Moran had insisted that I attend these functions, to make people think that I was someone to be seen. So I bought several tuxedos and tailored shirts, as well as a gold watch and cuff links, in order to dress the part of a gentleman.

Both
The Stand
and
Jamestown Junction
, my first two films, were notable successes. They only played for a few days, usually Thursday to Saturday, as was customary for that time. But they were exciting days, with reports of ticket sales that thrilled Moran and his investors. Both films were well-received, and
Photoplay
, in its reviews, heralded the arrival of a brand-new talent. “
The Stand
marks the impressive debut of a Japanese actor named Jun Nakayama,” wrote the magazine’s critic. “Although he has not yet mastered the techniques of acting for film, his presence—and his striking intelligence—are totally captivating.” All of the reviews were along these lines. They noted my in-experience, but also said that I possessed a compelling, mysterious quality that would serve me well in later films. “Nakayama, the young Jap, is someone to watch,” wrote the
Los Angeles Times
in its review of
Jamestown Junction
, a film about Chinese mine workers during the California Gold Rush. “His royal bearing and his intensity—and his exotic good looks—should captivate Occidental and Oriental audiences alike.”

As a result of such reviews and the box office success of the films, my life was changing again. My star was even brighter in Little Tokyo, where I could hardly step out of my apartment now without someone requesting an autograph. The money from my contract—I was making $100 a week—was much more than I had ever imagined. It enabled me to buy fine clothes and a fast little town car. It also allowed me to rent a six-room house in Pico Heights, one of the few areas outside of Little Tokyo and Boyle Heights where it was possible for Japanese to live.

It is hard to describe, now, the heady atmosphere of those first few years of Hollywood. The modest film operations of New York City had moved to the wider, warmer region of Los Angeles, where, like seedlings suddenly exposed to water and light, they shot up and fiourished unchecked. Soon, the films made in Los Angeles were being shown across the country, and then, in due time, across the world. And any young person with talent and desire might find himself swept up in the tide. A penniless ranch hand might be plucked from the hopefuls who gathered each day at Gower Gulch and be transformed into a highly paid star. A young woman walking down the street, lingering at store windows, might be spotted by a director, who might cast her as the heroine of his next film. An unknown Japanese university graduate, putting on a production of Shakespeare, might be seen by the head of a film company, who might decide he has a quality and a burgeoning talent that would translate well to the screen.

It happened just that quickly, that unexpectedly, and it happened for those who made the films as well. William Moran was a traveling auto mechanic before he became a director; Marshall Neilan had been a chauffeur; W.S. Van Dyke had worked as a lumberjack and gold miner; and Mack Sennett was a blacksmith before entering pictures and opening his famous studio. It didn’t matter that these men lacked formal education and had not spent years working on their craft. No one had. The industry was totally new, and the directors’ relative lack of refinement actually worked to their advantage, for they had no pretenses, they were willing to work round the clock, and they all told wonderful stories. These men were real people, often from the working classes, and that grasp of life, that authenticity, made its way onto the screen. Even the classically trained theater men like Ashley Bennett Tyler—the Englishman who directed several of my films before his untimely death—were of this resolute and entrepreneurial breed. And nobody—not the directors, not the actors, not the cameramen, not the carpenters who made the sets or the property men who furnished them—complained about the hard work or the long hours. We were all delighted to be there. We were at the nascent stages of something totally new, something wonderful, and everybody knew it.

It was in the spirit of this excitement that I attended the party in Whitley Heights. I do not recall the occasion— people needed little excuse to have a party—but the event drew at least a hundred people. I had driven with Moran, who had also brought his young wife, Margaret; Hanako Minatoya, who disliked such functions, had not accompanied us. After we made our way through the living room to give our regards to the host, we ventured out to the garden area, where a band was playing and several quick-moving men in tuxedos were serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres. It was lovely outside, and elegant couples were dancing around the garden. Every now and then peals of laughter would rise above the general clamor, loud bursts of joy that broke out of the crowd and fioated off into the warm, clear night.

We took glasses of champagne from one of the waiters and scanned the lively crowd. Well-wishers approached and gave their regards, then wandered off again. Although I was starting to enjoy these functions, I did not yet feel at ease enough to stray from Moran’s side; guests at earlier parties, assuming I was a servant, had tried to give me their dirty plates. That night, as always, the only people I spoke with were the ones who came to us. Now, it was the director and producer Gerard Normandy. He was, despite his romantic name, an unimposing man—short and slight, with thinning hair and round glasses. Even with his thick cigar and glass half-full of whiskey, he looked like a boy beside Moran’s imposing frame. He engaged Moran and his wife in a discussion about editing, and my attention began to wander.

Then I spotted a young woman about twenty feet away. She was standing in front of a tall stone fountain, talking to a group of men in tuxedos, resting one hand on the curve of her hip as she inhaled a cigarette from a long silver holder. The men stood around her in a semi-circle, and it was clear from their stance, and from the way she tossed her head, that they were entirely at her mercy. I immediately understood why. The woman was lovely. She had thick chestnut hair that fell about her shoulders in impossibly round curls, a shapely figure whose curves were echoed by the outline of the fountain, and a knowing smile that, when she first displayed it, made my stomach fiy up into my throat. Unlike so many of the other young women in Hollywood, then as well as now, she did not appear eager or innocent. There was something in the shape of her eyes and the set of her mouth that denoted a certain world-weariness, a hard-earned wisdom. This woman, for all her radiance, had known disappointments, had lived, and it was the incongruity of these elements—her loveliness and the scars that even beauty could not hide—that so captured me that evening of our youth. I watched her for several minutes. She appeared to be in the middle of a long, involved story, and the men listened eagerly as she gestured with her graceful hands, and laughed in unison whenever she paused. She pulled out another cigarette and held it, suspended, while the men all fumbled in their pockets to produce a match. I was so involved in watching her that I completely lost track of the directors’ conversation.